Page 6 of Puppy Love

Actually, there is a very good reason I am staring at her, and it isn’t just the ocean creatures attached to her feet. Call it cliché, but this woman may be one of the most beautiful people I have seen in my entire life. With her dark brown eyes and coral lips, she’s pretty in a completely natural, truly messy kind of way. And despite her strange choice of footwear, this woman knows what she’s doing. That dress hugs her body like she was the inspiration behind it. The cutout at her waist, the curve of her hips, every inch of her silhouette is perfectly captured in a wave of silky green. And it occurs to me, at this moment, there are so many more fuckable people on this planet than Mallory Freaking Sinclair.

And tonight, I am going to prove it.

I shrug, giving her a sly smirk. “Just waiting for you to say thank you,” I say, letting my chin rest in the divot of my hand.

She rolls her eyes. “Thank you?” she scoffs.

“Yes, thank you. It’s a phrase people use when they want to express gratitude. Might be foreign to you, but it’s pretty custom here.”

Her jaw drops, those delightful pretty lips parting in true surprise. I can’t help but break into laughter.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to choke on air as I continue to laugh. “I’m just fucking with you.”

The woman blushes, shooting me what I can only hope is a falsely irritated glare. The dark red glass clicks against the polished wood as the bartender sets her drink down and gives her a singular nod. She lifts it, letting the cup clink against the rim of the margarita I had no intention of drinking. But now, I’m starting to think maybe it wasn’t cursed at all. I smile, sliding the stem of it between my fingers before lifting it to my lips.

“Thanks,” she says, raising her eyebrows and lowering her tone to ensure I catch that her gratitude is pure sarcasm. Mine, however, is not.

Thank you, Mallory.

“Well,” I say, in an equally sarcastic tone. “When you put a damsel in distress, sometimes you gotta fix it with a Vodka Cranberry.”

The woman tries to stifle her laugh, but I can see her lips fighting to break into a smile.

“A damsel in distress?”

“I mean—” I gesture to the sharks attached to her feet. “If the slipper fits.”

I hold my breath, waiting to see if she bites. Bites the flirting bit or bites my head off. Either one could happen. Her tongue pokes the inside of her lower lip, and I think, in my completely biased opinion, that she just might be trying to hide another smile. She doesn’t say anything, so I continue.

“Maybe,” I say, gesturing to her now. “Maybe more of an Ice Princess than a damsel.”

Now, the woman scowls. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She’s so cute that I don’t even care.

“Definitely an Ice Princess. With your whole ‘I clearly hate people and want to be left alone’ thing.”

“Do you have a name, or do you just go around giving other people fake ones?” She purses her lips, like she’s proud of that comeback. I’ll let her have it.

“Violet,” I say, sticking out my hand. The woman looks down at it, almost like she’s analyzing it before she takes it into hers. Her palm is soft and just a little bit clammy in contrast to my dry, calloused skin.

“Cam.”

Cam.

I wonder what that’s short for. Camille? Camilla? Probably something like that, but I can’t say it matters too much. I don’t need to know her full legal name to have her screaming mine.

Heat rushes to my cheeks at the thought, but I stay composed enough to investigate if she’s thinking the same.

“So what brings you here, Cam?” I ask, gesturing to the crowded bar. “Alcohol? Friends? A man you met online whose photo features a dead animal?”

Cam bites her lip to hold back a laugh, but just a drop of her drink slips out of the corner of her mouth in the process. I reach my hand up and swipe the red liquid away with my thumb. Her eyes lock onto mine for a moment, before darting down to my chest. She swallows, her bottom lip curling back between her teeth. Heat grows between my thighs as she blushes.

“Doesn’t everyone come to the bar for alcohol?” she asks. I shrug.

“Not that guy.” I point to the man on the karaoke stage who’s belting out a rather pitchy version of The Beatles’ “Don’t Let Me Down.” “He’s here to perform.”

Another smile breaks across Cam’s face as she takes another sip of her drink.

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